Daylight
by brerwoodbaggins19
Summary: It's an irony that as the shadows are pushed back the truth, in light, is often less preferred. (post-reichenbach)


Daylight

* * *

Sherlock Holmes died in broad daylight.

He died as he lived- in the light without obscurity or uncertainty. It was a fact because when people purposely fall off tall buildings they die.

That's what people do, apparently, they leave messages and they die.

John Watson had to learn it the hard way and maybe as some sort of justice Sherlock Holmes, who wasn't very dead after all, had to too.

* * *

It was odd how nothing had changed in the three years of his supposed death. Baker Street was still a noisy street lined with squat brick buildings so close together you'd think they were rugby players going at each other for a chance at the ball. Speedy's was still a cafe with a large window and dull decor. Under the bright fake lights of streetlamps, it was too easy to believe that nothing had gone wrong. That three years had not passed and that he had not let go of everything he knew so that he could keep them- even if at an arms length away.

It was easy to think that he was still Sherlock Holmes the great Consulting Detective,

that he still had that 2 or 3 stones he lost,

that his hair was still long and black,

that he was still familiar,

that he could still belong here.

A yellow light filtered through the large windows and he could almost smell the tea and the fire. It was one in the morning but he didn't think it was odd- Mycroft had said John used to have nightmares- a rebound now and again was just normal. The night was crisp and cold- he was ready. If John threw a punch so be it, if he thew a fit so be it and if he threw Sherlock out- well there was nothing he could do but hope not- so be it. He looked up one last time.

"How does John do this? How does he believe?"

It's bloody terrifying- definitely a move for the desperate.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had been gone for three days: the state of the potted house plant she kept by her flat door.

John has not left the flat in three days: No footprints on the dust that lay rather heavily, comes with having a house by a busy road, on the steps and the landing.

John still grieves.

He's a little happy he hasn't been forgotten but a lot more worried.

He hurries up the seventeen steps- a flurry of coat, scarf and energy.

The door opens readily and John looks at him eyes clearer and bluer than he had ever seen them.

"Welcome home, Sherlock" was all he said.

* * *

The flat had not changed. It was not neater, not messier and -oddly enough -not even older. John has him settled with his coat, scarf and gloves replaced by a heavy quilt, a towel and a mug of pipping hot tea.

"John I-" John just lifts his hands and shakes his head.

"Another time, Sherlock, you can rest for the while." His smile is warm and understanding.

* * *

Jumper: oatmeal colored, cable knit, worn = deduction: old, well-worn [insufficient data]

Trousers: khaki, beige, crisp folding= deduction: relatively new [insufficient data]

His manner, speech, look- none of it suggested anything.

His mind filled with rows and columns of the same line: insufficient data

'When had he lost his ability to read John?' He thought in a panic.

"Let it go, Sherlock, it's been three years and your tired." Apparently his loss was a lonely one- John still read him like a book.

"You can say sorry tomorrow" John looks a bit sad as he said this-a subtle ripple in the placid waters he projected. "Just-I..I have to know why Sherlock- everything-why?"

Trust John to place him somewhat at ease. This he could do- this speech he had practiced since the day he jumped. He could tell his story and have some piece of mind. He could finally, though in a rather weak way, absolve himself and explain his sins- and maybe hope to be forgiven.

* * *

It was surreal.

John watched him intently but never interrupted him.

"Moran was the last of Moriarty's men...and after that I came home"

A draft came in and chilled the room the light of the fire flickered as if in reluctance. He shivered slightly and continued to look across at the smaller man.

"John, I really-"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock"

"What for, John? If anything I'm the one to apologize..."

"Just let me say it- I'm sorry, Sherlock and thank you."

He shivered again. It felt odd that all John was saying seemed familiar-it felt wrong.

"John, I don't follow. Why?"

"Let it be for now. You're tired you can sleep in your room everything will make sense in the morning."

"I suppose."

John was warm with his jumper and cotton trousers. He smelled like jam and tea and gunpowder and the dessert.

It was so easy to let go as they lay there under the covers.

His eyes fell.

"Goodnight, John."

"Thank you- you are my miracle" barely a whisper- a sound to fall asleep to.

* * *

John Watson died in the dark of night in his hospital room a year after Sherlock Holmes.

He died as he had lived the past year- plagued by uncertainty and veiled by obscurity. His death had not become a fact- well, not yet.

Sherlock hid behind his death.

John had someone hide his.

* * *

John's deterioration after Sherlock's supposed death was no secret. A stone in six months wasn't the only dead give away that the good doctor was not as he had been. A gauntness replaced the kindly shape of his face and an ugly gray tinted his bronzed skin. The limp was back in three months flat and the drink had not waited long after. It was easy for him to let go of himself simply because he had nothing to hold on to. Mycroft had scoffed when he heard what John had died of.

Bloody pneumonia.

* * *

There was a staleness in the air that had not been there before. A draft came rolling and though a ton of lead weighed them down he forces his eyes open to the daylight. He shook himself a bit a staggered out of his bedroom. Sleep trailed behind him as he stretched and pulled at his weary muscles. He was ha;f way to the kitchen when he realized something was very very wrong.

Floor: covered in a thick layer of dust, no rug, no clutter

Fireplace: clean, sootless

Seats: covered with white canvass cloth

Kitchen counters: empty

It didn't take a genius to realize that no one had set foot in this flat for a long time.

* * *

Mycroft arrived at 221B 5 minutes after Mrs. Hudson's frantic phone call.

* * *

Sherlock reeled.

His mind told him no but in his heart of hearts he knew, all too well, that last night had been John's last miracle.

* * *

AN: product of boredom and a late night :| So this is loosely based on Maroon 5's Daylight and I'm pretty sure I'll write a more detailed version of this if my ,mind clears up. I have no Beta (can someone please explain how that whole thing works?!) so please bear with the clumsy language. Please review!

-B.W. Baggins


End file.
